I unsheathed my sword and rubbed it against my chest, ensuring not to break eye contact with my nemesis. My husband, stood next to her, massaging her shoulders, rubbing her arms, whispering words of motivation into her ears.
She kept nodding while staring back into my eyes, a miasma of fear and determination swirled like deep pools of unrest.
I stepped forward indicating that I was ready, and the crowd comprising of every single individual who lived in Fulton Street, burst out in a cheer, that especially rang from the right. A smirk lined my lips, and a jolt of pride rocked my insides. Of course everyone championed for me, I had grown up with these folks, and that bitch standing opposite me, with her ass being massaged by my husband (John, the prick who needed tantric sex to get it up), had only entered the scene a year ago.
Taking my cue, as always, Wansi, the unoriginal bitch, stepped forward. And suddenly I could hear a cheer louder, much louder than the one that came when I stepped forward. It rang from all around me, and I stared at my neighbors from Fulton Street in disbelief.
The realization that there was massive crowd support for my nemesis was a small bump, and it wasn’t going to stop me. I had known for more than six months now that it would come to this, to this barbaric fight until death. Plus it was almost as if she had literally begged for it.
I mean, it would have been all-okay, had she just been content wrapping my husband of eleven years into her tentacles and having tantric sex with him night after night.
In fact, I remained a modicum of classy dignity even when she grew her hair and colored them to a mahogany red, just like mine. Or when she suddenly decided to start wearing light green contact lenses, just like the color of my eyes.
I remained a stoic figure of wisdom and tolerance when she started posting images of her Cheesecakes all over social media, knowing that I was the reigning queen, and had an existing brand of cheesecakes named after me.
Even though it chipped my saintly demeanor in various places, but I attempted to tolerate her less than basic attempts at poetry, knowing that she was only attempting it because I was a well-known poet.
It wasn’t until last week that my fraying thread of patience with my husband’s mistress broke.
After a long week of baking my famous cheesecakes and writing my famous poetry; my feet felt like they had run a marathon and what I really needed to end my Friday was a foot spa.
So, I walked into my favorite Spa and Massage parlor, Happy Endings, and asked for Fabio, my fabulous masseuse. But then to my utter horror, the staff at Happy Endings told me that Fabio was pre-booked.
No one pre-booked Fabio, especially not on a Friday evening, especially when they knew I was a regular.
“What do you mean pre-booked?” I shouted. “The entire Fulton street knows not to pre-book Fabio on Friday. WHO. BOOKED. FABIO?” I screamed and flicked a hair off my forehead. I took in a deep breath and realized I needed to maintain my calm.
The girl at the reception had gone pale.
“Mam…I…I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.” She said.
I walked across the reception, almost a hair’s breath away from her. Lowered myself to her barely five foot stature, looked into her uninspired, dirty brown eyes, and whispered, “Your pathetic existence makes me want to throw up. You will redeem your existence by telling me who pre-booked Fabio. Now.”
“WANSI!” She almost jumped and whispered, loud. “Miss…miss Wansi, pre-booked Fabio.”
“That tantric whore!” I muttered under my breath and stomped in. I knew that she just hadn’t booked Fabio, she would have also requested for my favorite room. The one with a view of Fulton Lake.
And I was right. Standing outside the Platinum Spa room, I heard Wansi flirt with Fabio and both of them giggling over something, that I am almost positive were jokes about me.
That moment, I walked up to Fulton Street Municipality office and put in a request for trial by combat. I wanted that bitch to die, and die at my hands. I wanted her blood to run though my skin and drip, drip, drip down to the ground.
She had broken every single barrier of my patience by stealing Fabio and the Platinum Spa Room from me.
The cheering from the crowd finally subsided, and I took my stance. Wanda ran towards me, screaming like a warrior, her mahogany hair flying in the air, and her ample boobs bouncing as she ran; and her eyes, with light green lenses watering, because lenses hurt.
Just as she came close to me, close enough to pierce the tip of the sword, I stepped aside and let her trip on my foot. She fell down on her face and the arena fell into pin drop silence. The temptation to then bury my sword into that ass which my husband just finished massaging was too much. But I resisted.
I needed to give these people some drama; I needed Wansi to lose miserably. So pathetically, that there wouldn’t be a single person who would blame my victory to luck…
LitLatte 